


Christmas Music

by WritingOutLoud



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Christmas Music, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28093677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud
Summary: “Teach me?” The words slip from his lips before he has a chance to catch them. What is he doing? He can’t dance. He’s never wanted to dance. Yet, something is enticing about being whisked around the living room in the arms of his detective.~ John walks in on Sherlock waltzing. Of course, he has to join in ~
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 88
Collections: 2020 Advent Collection Johnlock Style, Festive Johnlock Collection





	Christmas Music

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my amazing beta, [ChaserJinx8065](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Chaserjinx8065). You're truly the best
> 
> This was written for the [2020 Johnlock advent collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Johnlock_2020_Advent_Collection/works)

John marvels at the Christmas lights hanging high above him. They’ve been up at least a month now, but tonight is the first time he’s felt truly festive. The clinic is officially closed for Christmas, and he feels himself relax more with each step he takes closer to home. He’s always loved Christmas. Not the commercial side, the scream of festive advertising in your face until you find yourself sickened by it all. He also thinks that the decorations start too early—that by the time you reach Christmas Day you find yourself festively exhausted, unable to enjoy the novelty. However, if he lets himself ignore the holiday until the last minute; until all the patients have been seen and the final days approach, then he can get lost in the magic. It’s an excuse to socialise—to see those distant Aunts and Uncles that you’ve never heard of before; to catch up with friends, neglected with the business of the previous year. Aside from the giving of gifts and the consuming of food and far, far too much alcohol; it’s connectedness.

It’s not the Christmases of childhood that John remembers. His favourite Christmases have been in Afghanistan, his platoon finding joy in the small things; decorating the tents with paper chains; passing round a bottle of wine as they play cards on the little fold-out tables. The celebrations don’t need to be big. Rather, John most enjoys the years where the festivities are subtle, small gatherings with close friends. 

Unfortunately, cases don’t stop for Christmas. John loves them, he does—but after the fiasco last December with Irene Adler, he was hoping for a quieter year. Against his better judgement, he longs for a Christmas holed up in 221B with Sherlock, wasting the hours with wine and stupid games. He knows that’s not what Sherlock does, but he can dream. 

John’s breath curls through the air as he crosses the last few metres to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson, much to Sherlock’s dismay, has hung a wreath of holly on the door, and it stands proud against the polished black wood. 

Inside, the stairs creak; worn wood squeaking with protest as he climbs the steps two at a time. He shifts his bag from one hand to the other, redistributing the weight off his bad shoulder. It’s better than it was, the constant running and working of the muscles keep it loose, but the wound still aches occasionally, especially on cold days like this. He rolls the joint backwards, trying to ease the gentle throbbing. 

John’s mid-roll as he pushes the door to the flat open. He freezes, elbow still raised, at the scene before him. 

John’s ancient CD player is perched on the sofa, a gentle stream of violin notes sounding out from the speakers. All the furniture has been pushed back against the walls, leaving a large space in the centre of the room. Sherlock is standing in the middle, arms raised; one curled directly in front of him, one raised level with his head. It’s odd, and John’s brain runs through a million possibilities before Sherlock moves, taking one delicate step backwards, twisting slightly as he places his weight into one outstretched toe. 

“John.” He nods, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. Which, when John thinks about it, it is. Certainly, John has walked in on Sherlock doing way weirder things. Just last week, he’d returned home to find Sherlock dissecting a full duck. He hadn’t wanted to ask what that was about. 

“Hello...” He skirts past the dancing detective, walking into the kitchen and placing his shopping bag on the table.“Are you...waltzing?” 

“Yes.” 

“Can I ask why?” 

Sherlock sighs and drops his arms. 

“Mrs Hudson requested I teach her how to waltz. It seems Mr Chatterjee has invited her to his Christmas Eve party. I’m merely practising the steps before she arrives.” 

“You know how to waltz?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

“Of course I do, John.” 

“Of course you do,” John repeats, watching in amazement as Sherlock raises his hands again and counts the beats, effortlessly flying across the floor of the living room. John shouldn’t be surprised; Sherlock has some knowledge of most things. It’s just, Sherlock’s skills are usually rudimentary at best. He learns enough for a case, but he seems to learn for learning’s sake. There’s no finesse; no bells and whistles. But this, Sherlock appears to be enjoying. 

John leans back against the wall, his eyes roaming over the detective. Dancing was not something John would have associated with Sherlock, but the detective never fails to surprise him. 

“Teach me?” The words slip from his lips before he has a chance to catch them. What is he doing? He can’t dance. He’s never wanted to dance. Yet, something is enticing about being whisked around the living room in the arms of his detective. 

Sherlock spins to face him, elegantly lowering his weight back into his heels, and holds a hand out to John. John takes it, suddenly regretting his decision. He’ll make a fool of himself—he’s not built for this. Sherlock is all delicate limbs and perfect control. John feels like a wooden nutcracker in comparison. He’s a soldier, not a dancer. 

“Don’t panic,” Sherlock murmurs, sending a shiver down John’s spine. He lets his shoulders relax and places one hand on Sherlock’s upper arm, and the other in Sherlock’s left hand. The detective’s free hand slides its way along John’s back and settles under his shoulder blade. John desperately wants to lean into it, but he refrains, straightening his back and raising his chin.

“Left foot backwards,” Sherlock instructs, his eyes flickering over John’s face as if trying to deduce what lies beneath. 

They begin to move around the room, Sherlock leading and occasionally giving instructions. It’s not as hard as John had anticipated—if he lets himself relax, Sherlock moves him in the right directions, he just has to remember where to place his feet. 

“Stop looking down at your feet.” John’s gaze flickers back to Sherlock’s face, and he blushes. Where is he supposed to look? He desperately wants to lean forward and close the gap; to take those lips against his, work them open until the detective is putty in his hands. 

John clears his throat, praying that his face isn’t giving him away. He focuses on the music, counting the beats. The song sounds familiar, but he can’t quite place it. It’s an instrumental, but he’s sure he can picture lyrics over the melody. He racks his brain, trying to recall where he’s heard it, and then it suddenly hits him. 

“Wait—“

“Shut up.”

“—is this, Christmas music?” 

“I said, shut up.” 

“It is! The great Sherlock Holmes has sunk to listening to—“ He is interrupted by the detective surging forward and capturing John’s lips. John freezes, at first—his brain stalling with the sudden feeling of Sherlock’s mouth on his. The detective starts to pull away, but John places a firm hand on the back of his neck, pulling him back in. They melt together, the living room falling away, their bodies the only thing in existence. Hands wander; shirts lifting to reveal the expanse of warm skin beneath. John feels weightless, the firm touch of the detectives calloused hands the only thing keeping him grounded.

As they finally pull apart, separated only by a desperate need for air, they rest their foreheads against each other, their breath tangling together in the space between. 

“—Christmas music.” 


End file.
